The Farmhouse

There were summers spent in fields of gold,

where I lay my head on the softest grass

and stared up at stars typically cloaked in city lights & smog.

I remember big breakfasts and fishing on the pond,

Grandpa's laugh and the first time I rode on the tractor with him.

I used to think roller coasters were just sitting in the tractor scoop

raised toward the sun that helped me grow like the surrounding crops.

I was five when I was allowed to handle the eggs,

conquering the chicken coop and the angry hens,

apologizing with every egg placed in the basket on my elbow.

My contribution to those big breakfasts and morning traditions.

I befriended the pigs in their pen,

and waddled with the ducks

and was always fearful of the deer skull & antlers in the barn

but I can still remember the way it smelled

like old barn wood, hay and rusted metal.

These memories are all I have left,

of the farmhouse built into the hill,

and the old barn and pond down the walk.

The hoof prints left the mud long ago

and the crops aged with you & Grandpa.

I wonder if the ducks still visit the pond,

generations later,

flocking to home.